Mira was the best of them all. When she bared her boobs during one of my performances at Carnivore, my mouth went like ‘Whack!’ stopping me mid-lyrics. Her perky breasts pointed to the heavens as though her bust was thanking the gods of beauty for such a blessing. After the show, we went to my crib, where we stood the whole night and the morning after, I told her I wanted her to be mine for keeps.

This night, Pope John XII the Young shagged me rhythmically as if having sex with an African was a mystical ecstasy. When he looked into my eyes, I wondered what it really felt to listen to people’s sins, and no one listened to yours. When he emptied his holy seed in me, he rolled onto his side panting. I almost called his personal doctor, afraid his heart was attacking him.

Bodies were everywhere. Human bodies tied to trees, nailed to X crosses, stakes driven through their hearts, sprawled spread-eagle on the forest floor at odd angles. People painfully resting in peace.

Twenty years after nuclear energy was discovered in Kenya in 2011, the first plant was built. It opened job opportunities even for the youth whom the President of the Republic of Kenya (PORK) had been promising jobs since independence.

The media call me a jihad bride, ever since I joined ISIS. Well, I am a jihad houri, whore!? Whenever the brave mujahedeen go out to massacre kafirs, they come back to our haven and find me waiting for them. In this life, I don’t get tired of being screwed by the terrorists because most of them have erectile dysfunction, most of them ejaculate on my thighs even before they can feel the puckering of my yoni.

When you lose someone you love, a part of you is lost. I have seen it in my short illustrious career in the police’s Special Crimes Unit. Every time I tell someone that their lover, spouse, child, or parent is dead, I watch them shatter before me. Some of them vent their anger on me, or on the police, the government. In another life, I must have been the Angel of Sorrow.

Growing up, my bedroom would be invaded by phantoms, battalions of my father’s doppelgangers that besieged the whole room and stood guard over me like a besieged city and platoons of my mother’s ghosts; I guess her soul had never rested in peace.

A month after breaking my heart alongside my virginity, the man responsible for the crime committed the same heinous act with my younger sister. We were living in Mombasa at the time, on a beach house at the very edge of the Indian Ocean overlooking its warm waters.

I was beatified the same day Sister Irene ‘Nyaatha’ Stefani became ‘Blessed’. While Blessed Irene Stefani began her journey to sainthood, I began mine to slut-hood. The only thing I share with Blessed Irene Stefani is Roman Catholicism and seven-frilled habits.

I have big, wide and beautiful/lovely/lustrous eyes, like pearls, as the Quran says in Surat Al-Wāqi`ah 56:22 – 23. My breasts are round and firm.  And I am a houri (virgin). I am what martyrs for Allah will get in paradise.

There is an acute shortage of virgins over here, guys. The forces of demand and supply are really fighting, and I don’t think the war will end any time soon. And who lied to you there are virgins over here anyway?